A sunny September stroll on a Saturday in Suffolk

One thing that has made the restrictions of the pandemic more tolerable is that, here in Suffolk, there’s plenty of space, and not so many people. And those people that are here seem to be more likely to practice social distancing and behave in a manner more considerate of those around them. That’s an observation based on my personal experience, and not a statement of fact though.

There are also plenty of places to walk, but today offered a rare opportunity to enjoy the grounds of Euston Hall, the family home of the Dukes of Grafton. It’s only generally open for a few days a year, and we’d only spotted the dates last week when driving through Euston on the way back from Felbrigg Hall. And, with the money raised from ticket sales going to a good cause - various local charities via the Suffolk Community Foundation - it seemed like an enjoyable way to spend a hour or two.

And the grounds are lovely, in part laid out by John Evelyn - yes, the diarist - in the seventeenth century, and developed further with water features by Capability Brown. They’ve been restored by the current Duke and Duchess, and a fine job they have done too.

Normally, there’s a tearoom and access to the Hall, but in these times of pandemic, neither option was open to us although, it must be said, we’re rather keener on the walking and scenery than in the insides of grand houses. And so it was that, having finished our stroll around the grounds, we drove the short distance to Wyken Vineyards for coffee.

There are a surprising number of vineyards in Suffolk, and the proprietors have made this into an attraction, with a very good restaurant, the Leaping Hare, an outdoor market, a shop for your wine needs and the sort of decor stuff that you might not actually need but impulse buy. From the outdoor market, we picked up some rather nice sourdough bread from Wooster’s Bakery in Beardwell, and some beer from the Old Felixstowe Brewery Company.

Coffee drunk, we headed back out, stopping only to buy a couple of bottles of wine and eat ice cream (well, we’d have only been at a National Trust property eating cake...) from Spoonstruck. If you happen to be in Cambridgeshire, their ice cream is extraordinarily good, if the apple cinnamon I had was anything to go by. Oh, and yes, the woman who sold it to us was wonderfully generous and entertaining.

So, all in all, a rather nice day out. Must do this more often...

The day the Morris Men came to Needham Market

Having lived in a big city for many a year, and having spent all my money on whisky and beer (I like whisky but I'm not so fussed about it), my experience of morris dancing is, to be honest, a bit metropolitan. It's all very well, but just rather bucolic, and that word is used in an ironic sense in this instance.

However, live in the country long enough (and I mean live in it rather than just visiting it at weekends), and you begin to appreciate it rather better. It isn't simply a bunch of men with beards who drink beer, wear hats with flowers on and either wave hankies or hit sticks against each other. And yes, I acknowledge that beer is drunk (real ale, not the gassy lager stuff), and that straw hats with flowers on are de rigeur, but it is quite complex.

As a child at primary school, I was forced to do country dancing every week. Given that I went to school in a north-west London suburb, that was a little unusual but, as one got the hang of it, one began to develop an appreciation of the precision needed to do it well. Oh yes, you can galumph about, flinging your partners around, but the real joy of it is remembering all of the patterns, making sure that your timing is spot on, and ensuring that your partner enjoys the experience as much as you do.

Now, add sticks to that, and you have to be even more accurate. Those sticks hurt if you miss your target, and the clatter when they are struck against each other sounds all wrong if your timing is out. And if you do hit one of your colleagues, the beer only deadens the pain for a while.

So, when I discovered, on arrival at the fundraising launch for St John the Baptist Church, that there would be beer, some really excellent sausage rolls and morris dancing, I was rather pleased. Eight men, two accordion players, two lengths of stick - what more could you want? And, I have to say, the East Suffolk Morris Men were excellent value, giving us a goodly sample of dances under the splendid fifteenth century roof. And, in keeping with tradition, a number of them could be seen sampling the fine products of the local Calvors brewery.

In tribute to them, here they are, performing at the Suffolk Show last month...

Far from the campaign trail - a goldfinch comes...

A goldfinch... but not my goldfinch...

I was sitting in our conservatory on Sunday morning, drinking tea, when I looked out at the bird feeder planted in the middle of the lawn and noticed a somewhat unusual looking bird with its beak searching for a free snack. "What's that?", I asked Ros, our household nature expert. She peered at it, slightly myopically - we both have eyesight which is less than optimal - and mused.

Luckily, the wonders of the internet allowed me to establish that it was, in fact, a goldfinch. Goldfinches are quite attractive, with their red faces and yellow wing flashes, and I haven't seen very many previously. That said, now that we feed the wild birds, we have a rather more lively garden, with plenty of birdsong to add a little cheer even on the dullest morning.

It is one of the pleasures of rural life, in that you do have time to stop and stare, to absorb the change of the seasons - the oil seed rape is beginning to flower, turning whole fields into adverts for the Liberal Democrats, the hedges are beginning to blossom and life generally is becoming greener, with the promise of a good harvest to come.

Apparently, there is a General Election campaign going on out there somewhere, although it hasn't really come to our village yet...

Collecting my thoughts in Woodbridge

It was a lovely day, wasn't it? Here in Suffolk, at least, the sun shone out of a clear blue sky, and the spring warmth drew people out to bask in the best weather we've seen for months. And so, we went to Woodbridge, a gentle drive across country, on the lower reaches of the River Deben.

And as Ros and I walked along the river bank, the world seemed like a nicer place, as dogs splashed in the shallows and a curlew explored the mud for a snack or two with its elegantly curved bill. We were reminded that, despite all the travelling we do, and all the things that we have seen, we are lucky enough to live in a rather lovely corner of the world. Not dramatic, not majestic, but gently attractive nonetheless.

But there was another reason for our trip to Woodbridge - the search for cordial. On a recent trip to Southwold, we had picked up some rather special cordial, which I like to serve warm on a winter's evening, or when I am feeling slightly jaded. And, unfortunately, we were running out, so we popped into the Adnams Cellar and Kitchen store for wine, beer and three sorts of cordial.

And then we went home, where beer and cordial were drunk, chicken casserole eaten, and a newspaper read. All in all, it was a lovely weekend, and as a prelude to a rather more hectic week ahead, it has set us up nicely....

Moving bits of wood from place to place... just another day in the country

There are some things about living in a town or city that are quite a bit easier, and one of them is energy. In the absence of a sizeable enough population, or proximity to a pipeline, gas is something you just have to do without. Instead, we rely on heating oil and, for warmth, firewood, both of which require a little more in the way of organisation - they both need to be delivered, and in such a way that you don't run out before new supplies arrive.

We have our firewood delivered, and at some point in the day, a lorry comes and lifts a pallet of wood, wrapped in plastic netting onto our driveway. Then, at the first opportunity, the wood has to be stored, which in our case means moving it all, by hand, to the woodshed. Usually, we buy wood in 0.6 cubic metre bags! which takes a while to shift, but is doable. This week, they only had 1.5 cubic metre bags, rather more of a challenge.

So, yesterday was spent moving and stacking logs. It's not as easy as it sounds, as you need to stack it tidily so as to get as much in, as safely, as possible. And, of course, the logs are heavy and roughly sawn, so splinters are a hazard. But, with the benefit of my regular(ish) workouts, I'm in slightly better shape, so I set to work, selecting logs by eye for length and shape, to make the stacks neat and safe.

The weather was alright, and I made pretty good progress between cups of tea, as the woodshed got fuller and the pile of wood outside shrank to less daunting proportions. And, eventually, we had a full woodshed.

I wonder what we do with the rest of the wood?...

A branch line at the end of a spiral arm of the galaxy

Suffolk is surprisingly well provided for in terms of trains. With the exception of Haverhill, the towns are connected to Ipswich by hourly train services which, given car ownership and population levels, is about as good as you could reasonably ask for.

The Corn Exchange, now used as the town's library

The quirky exception is Sudbury, which sits at the end of the single track Gainsborough Line, and is served by two-carriage Diesel Multiple Units from Marks Tey on the main East Anglian Main Line. There are no through trains to London, as the branch joins the main line on a curve, pointing towards Colchester and Ipswich, and the fast London trains don't stop at Marks Tey anyway.

There are two intermediate stations, Bures and Chappel & Wakes Colne, the latter being the home of the East Anglian Railway Museum and an exceptionally popular beer festival. There's also the viaduct, which is said to be the largest brick structure in the country.

What this does mean is that Sudbury isn't an obvious place to commute to London from, with a consequential impact on house prices. And it's a rather nice little town, known for its silk production and for being the birthplace of the eighteenth century artist, Thomas Gainsborough, amongst other things.

It has a small department store, Winch & Blatch, enough shopping, some nice churches, sufficient architecture to keep you engaged, and the water meadows on the River Stour are a nice place to stretch your legs and get some fresh air.

But, for any Londoners reading this, it might as well be on Mars. Ah well, your loss...

Another gentle day in the Suffolk countryside...

As I occasionally note, I tend to learn new things on a regular basis now that I am a country dweller full time. And today, it's all been about birds.

Firstly, I have been reminded that, if you leave an opportunity for our feathered friends, they will take it. I was somewhat surprised by a close range blur from an unexpected quarter. On closer inspection, a hole in a porch (not ours, I hasten to add) has been colonised by starlings, or 'feathered rats', as Richard, our builder refers to them. And, it seems, they're pretty noisy. It just shows that you really do need to keep an eye on a house, especially out here in the country.

With the weather having been relatively benign today, Ros has been in the garden, whilst I've been pottering about. And there's been a lot of birdsong, some of it remarkably loud. We noticed that a blackbird had been disappearing behind our oil tank and, curious, I took a closer look, only to find a fledgling on the ground, crying loudly.

Alright, I thought, I ought to do something. But what? I asked Ros, whose advice was to try entering "What do you do with a fledgling?" into Google. So, I did. And, for those of you who are confronted with such a problem, here's the official answer;

Young garden birds usually leave the nest about two weeks after hatching - just before they can fly. If you find a young bird out of its nest, it is probably a fledgling. Fledglings are almost fully feathered, able to walk, run and hop on to low branches, and will try to hide in undergrowth where they are fed by their parents. Parent birds are not usually far away and are probably collecting food but will not return until you have gone. Within a day of leaving the nest, fledglings can usually fly enough to keep up with their parents and escape predators.

Only move them, or encourage them to move, a short distance to safety if they are in immediate danger. If you have picked up a fledgling, put it back as near as possible to the place you found it. Don't try to return a fledgling to its nest as you may disturb other young birds. If you are concerned about its safety try to put it nearby on a ledge, or somewhere it will be out of the reach of cats. Monitor the situation from afar (otherwise your presence may continue to discourage the return of the parents) for at least two hours. You will almost certainly find that the parents have taken care of their youngster.

 So, I've left it alone. Only time will tell, I suppose...

And the Gipping gently flows...

With the recent wet weather, the once parched landscape has become alive with the sound of flowing water, a reminder that this part of Suffolk is not as flat as one might think. Hopefully, the rain will ease a bit, but the importance of keeping drainage ditches clear of obstruction has been emphasised in case anyone has forgotten.

Creeting St Peter has not gone unaffected. The road to Creeting St Mary flooded just beyond the small bridge that links the parishes, and the drainage ditch that runs along Creeting Lane as it winds its way towards the A1120 and Stowupland burst its banks, causing a river effect. And even Mill Lane was tricky to drive down due to surface water. But the village itself is on a rise, probably a throwback to the plague - villages tended to relocate uphill from the churchyard where victims were buried, I understand - and is pretty much unaffected.

Ros and I have taken to walking up Creeting Lane of an evening, as much to stretch our legs as to go anywhere in particular. The sounds of birdsong, the flowers on the verges, the occasional sighting of an owl, all serve to remind us that living in the country is a counterpoint to our rather more hectic lives elsewhere. It's gentle, in an undemanding sort of way.

But it's time to head back into the more pressurised world of politics for a while. Ros is on her way back to Parliament - it's Queen's Speech day today - whilst I'll be on my way to London later, en route to Yerevan, Armenia (Ros is coming too).

And I really must pay more attention to what's going on - there's a lot on the agenda in the coming weeks...

Somewhere out there, is someone thinking what I'm thinking?

One of the many joys of living in a small, dimly-lit village is the night sky.

In London, light pollution means that only the brighter stars can be seen with the naked eye. In Creeting St Peter, the night sky is a sea of lights, tiny pinpoints marking who knows what.

It is the sort of sky to inspire philosophers and dreamers. For me though, it is a reassuring reminder that, in a world where people can be quite irritatingly certain about things regardless of the uncertainties that exist in political decision making, that there are vast areas of doubt and uncertainty, and that we are a small backwater in a vast universe...

My life as a country gentleman

It's been more than eight months since I gave up life in the big city and moved permanently to my small village in mid-Suffolk. And whilst there were some concerns when I did so, it seems to be going well enough.

Part of the adjustment was ensuring that I didn't become isolated, a genuine risk when you don't drive, and you rely on a rather fragile transport infrastructure to get around. And so my role as a Parish Councillor helps that, both as an intellectual challenge (it is possible that I worry too much about that element of the job) and as an activity. In turn, that leads to my role as 'foreign minister', representing the village at meetings of the Suffolk Association of Local Councils (SALC), and of the Stowmarket and District Road Safety Committee.

Of course, one needs a social life too. The monthly coffee morning organised by the Parochial Church Council, the odd village pub night (odd, as in occasional, before you ask), a Local Party social event or two, all of them fill slots in the diary. I come to London from time to time, to visit family, to do things with Ros, or for meetings of Unlock Democracy.

Finally, there are what I would describe as the unexpected events. Last weekend, I put on my black tie and the dinner jacket, and attended the High Sheriff's charity dinner in Ipswich, a high society event for Suffolk gentry, raising funds for the Suffolk Foundation, a wonderful organisation doing valuable work across the county. The wine flowed, as did the witty and light-hearted conversation, as networking took place.

The following day saw the Mayor of Needham Market's Civic Service and, given Ros's title, and her long connection to the town, we get an invite to attend and to take part in the procession. Mayors from other Suffolk towns attend in their robes (the Mayor of Aldeburgh even has a robed bodyguard), and we processed down the middle of the High Street to the Parish Church of St John the Baptist, with traffic blocked by the police whilst we did so. When we reached our destination, a rather robust, not entirely multi-cultural service followed (pardon me, but singing 'One Church, One Faith, One Lord' isn't exactly inclusive, even if the local Catholic priest is present...). We then processed back down the High Street to the Swan, where afternoon tea was served.

It is gentle, I admit, a rather low-energy lifestyle, where trying too hard is frowned upon, and those 'big city ways' need to toned down, but it is far removed from the stresses of the urban rat race. Think of it as the rural vole stroll...

Open Farm Sunday in Creeting St Mary

One of the many advantages of not being on the road any more is that Ros and I get the pleasure of spending weekends at home, just pottering around. And, having finished the weekend's household chores, we took the opportunity to attend our local Open Farm Sunday event in neighbouring Creeting St Mary.

Whitegate Farm is conveniently located just off the A140 and is a 109-acre holding, owned and managed by Jason and Katherine Salisbury. However, it is becoming increasing well-known by connoisseurs of fine dairy products as the home of Suffolk Farmhouse Cheeses, and in opening their farm up to the public, it presented an opportunity not to be missed.

We arrived in light rain to discover that we were far from the only people to decide that a farm visit was the perfect way to spend part of a Sunday, and there were plenty of families out, looking at the very young calves, including one just a day old, the fine milking herd (guernseys, for those of you who know about this stuff), and the piglets. There were trailer rides around the farm, cheese to taste, hot pork and sausage rolls to eat and even some retail opportunities.

But for me, the best part of the visit was the opportunity to buy some cheese. Suffolk Farmhouse Cheeses produce two main varieties - the Suffolk Blue (pictured here), a creamy lightly blue-veined cheese, and the Suffolk Gold, a creamy semi-hard farmhouse cheese. As someone who takes his cheese very seriously, it would have been a terrible pity not to have bought some, and so I have a decently sized piece sitting in the refrigerator, awaiting my attention at some point in the next few days.

I frankly confess that, until recently, the chances of me visiting a farm in this country would have been remote, but living in the country, surrounded by fields, farming takes on a rather greater sense of relevance. As a parish councillor, issues around speeding tractors, access to footpaths and planning consultations mean that farming is never entirely off of my agenda, especially with three working farms in the parish. I can even talk about sugar beet, oil-seed rape and wheat with the sense that I might not be talking utter rubbish.

So, all in all, a good day out, made almost perfect by the heavy rain that started falling late in the afternoon. With droughts now declared in most of East Anglia, but not yet in Suffolk, and the crops beginning to become dangerously parched, some prolonged rain will have raised the spirits of local farmers. As long as it rains at night, that'll be just fine...

Don't you know, we're talking about an evolution...

Life changes, even here in my little Suffolk village, and quite often, it only needs a push from one or two people to make it happen.

One thing that I had noticed in Creeting St Peter when I first moved here was the apparent lack of social activity. Yes, it is a small place, with only a church room as a social space, and given my backstory in the big city, I wasn't hugely concerned, especially as I was still working in London.

There was, I was told, some activity in the past, organised by the Community Council, summer fetes, barbecues and the like, but with the loss of key members, this had ceased.

But it does pay to make an effort sometimes. Alice, the Chair of our Parochial Church Council, and her colleagues initiated a monthly coffee morning on the second Saturday of each month and suddenly discovered a hitherto untapped desire to meet fellow villagers. So much so that they rapidly became standing room only.

I've done a small amount to support them - by advertising the event on my village blog, by suggesting that the scheduled visit by the mobile police station be sited outside the church room at the same time - but by simply getting things started, more volunteers to help have come forward, making them more self-supporting. It is, if you like, a perfect example of the 'Big Society' in action.

And I learned a lot too. I learnt about the delicate web of personal relationships that sustains or, occasionally, harms a small community, of the history of the village, of the ups and downs of community. As a rookie Parish councillor, that kind of knowledge is invaluable if you want to do the job well.

Of course, I then ran as the Liberal Democrat candidate for the ward which includes Creeting St Peter. Running a classic campaign of the kind I approve of, heavily local in focus, a lot of canvassing, I met a lot of my fellow villagers, some for the first time. It was another immersion in the often small things that exercise people. And people were really friendly (with a few exceptions...).

Meanwhile, the Parochial Church Council had become more ambitious, with plans for a village pub night (we don't have a village pub). Unfortunately, Ros and I couldn't be there - ELDR Council in Dresden intervened - but it was an event that I wanted to succeed.

There was a brief local difficulty when a sign on the village green advertising the event was removed by the Parish Council, for perfectly justifiable reasons, but even that had its benefits. I had wanted to publicise the news of a local road closure, and it provided the perfect excuse to deliver another leaflet - this time as a local resident and not as a politician. So, six days before the event, Ros and I leafleted the entire Parish with news of the event. After all, we want our village to be a better place...

The event went well, with fifty people turning up to drink local ale, raise money for charity and meet, and I hope that Alice, Russell and all of those who made it happen feel that it was worth the effort. I'm certainly looking forward to the next one!

And the consequential effects ripple outwards. There is more interest in the long-standing Community Council project to refurbish the playing field, talk of improving communication, of engaging village residents. All because a few people have shown some willing to contribute...

Treasure hunt: a morning drive in Mid Suffolk

I meant to publish this in September, and appear to have forgotten to do so... but it's fun anyway, so why not...

Whilst pottering about in Stowupland a few weeks ago, Ros and I came upon a poster for a Treasure Hunt, due to take place this weekend just passed. Whilst we don't get much opportunity to do things locally, it so happened that we would be at home and not committed to anything else, so Ros signed us up to take part.

So, yesterday morning at 10.25 a.m., we found ourselves at the Village Hall at Stowupland, where we were given a set of cryptic directions and clues to solve, plus a sealed envelope with a map in it. We weren't alone, as the Chair of Stowupland Parish Council, Nic Perks and his wife, were there with likewise intent.

I hadn't taken part in one of these before, but Ros had, so we took on our usual roles (Ros drives and I navigate) and we set off. The route took us up towards Cotton and Finningham, through Wickham Skeith, then across to Walsham-le-Willows and Badwell Ash, before returning via Wetherden and Haughley in time for a baked potato lunch back at the Village Hall.

I was rather pleased that, as at the time we finished, we were the only team to get all of the questions correct, and Ros dealt with the idiocyncracies of my technique with equanimity (oh look, there's a bunny rabbit!). We'll have to do it again if the opportunity arises.

Eventually, I must find out how we got on. Apparently, there is a formula which takes into account the number of miles travelled (the greater the number, the more detours you've taken), the number of questions correctly answered and the time taken.

The countryside - a mysterious place full of strange creatures...

It's a sheep, not a goat or a llama...

I'll return to my woolly friend later...

Apparently, a new survey has revealed that there are some amazingly ill-informed people out there. According to the Travelodge hotel chain, of 3,000 people surveyed, 22% could not identify a picture of a hare. One in 10 adults thought it was a deer. Alright, it does depend on the picture they're shown as to whether you'd think it was a rabbit or a hare, although if it's a still life, the legs and ears are a pretty good clue. But a deer?...

Talking of deer, 12% per cent of the survey group identified a stag as a reindeer, and thought that reindeer were native to Britain. Now, there is a herd of reindeer in Phoenix Park, Dublin, but I've never seen any in the wild here. Perhaps they thought they live in Scotland.

32% had difficulty picking out a pheasant, which surprises me less. I would have had a pretty good idea before I moved to a village surrounded by them, and I used to look for them on rural train journies, but given the number of people who don't venture into the countryside, it isn't unexpected.

42% didn't know what an otter looked like and that does surprise me. Everybody likes otters, don't they? They're cute, they're on every countryside programme there is, and you can find them surrounded by small children in zoos.

And in a sign that I'm getting old, 83% were stumped by a picture of a common bluebell. Bluebells were iconic English woodland flowers, I thought. Perhaps if there were more pictures of them in 'Midsomer Murders', they'd be more familiar...

However, what worried me most was that one in ten adults failed to correctly identify a sheep. A sheep, for pity's sake. Anyway, if there are any readers of this blog who are confused on this question, have a look at the picture at the beginning. It's a sheep...

Goodbye, big city, hello, county town!

It's been a long time, forty-six years to be precise, since I was born a Londoner. Most of my childhood was spent in North London, the dramas of my first marriage were played out in inner South London, before a shuttle first north, then south, of the river. Virtually all of my politics was done in a city where I had an almost anorakish knowledge of public transport options, and my family, the UK resident part at least, remain snug and warm in North London's suburbia. If you had ever said that I would leave, and of my own volition too, I would have looked at you as if to suggest, "you are mad, aren't you?".

And so it is with some surprise that I can announce that I'm leaving - permanently, I suspect - having sought and won a transfer to the Corporation Tax Operations office in Ipswich, where I start on 1 February. Same job (pretty much), different people, and my view will not be of central London but central Ipswich.

As a result, London will become the big, rather crowded, terribly rushed place where Ros works, a place that I will visit surprisingly frequently, but a place where other people do apparently glamorous things. In truth, I'm not really a doer of glamorous things, although I had the occasional moment when I thought that I might try - exposure to the blowtorch of reality was usually enough to put a stop to such daydreams.

What is unexpected though is the ease with which I have adapted to life beyond the Home Counties. I enjoy the rather slower pace of life, the need to organise social activities, the time to stop and look, rather than have to snatch a quick glance and run. In short, I have been seduced by the relative gentility of country life.

No, I'm not painting a sugar-coated picture of village life, and the notion of a sylvan countryside where bad things never happen is so far removed from the reality that one might wonder why I'm so comfortable. I suppose that I've found my niche in a place where the politics is gentler, where ideology takes something of a backseat to community, in short somewhere where my political style sits better.

So, to my London friends, au revoir. Don't worry, I'll be back from time to time, mainly to see friends and family, and to do things with Ros. There might even be the odd meeting, if I feel the urge. But it's time to build a home and a life, and there's nobody and nowhere else I'd rather do it...